


An Unexpectedly Merry Christmas

by eucatastrophe__x



Series: A Little Elf Magic [1]
Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Alternate Universe, Awkward Flirting, Children, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Family, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eucatastrophe__x/pseuds/eucatastrophe__x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard, a freelance writer living a solitary life in New York after his last relationship crashed and burned, couldn’t quite get himself into the holiday spirit. The thought of a shopping trip with his visiting sister and nephews a few days before Christmas didn’t exactly fill him with joy, either.</p><p>But a chance meeting at the mall may just bring some holiday cheer into his life after all – and teach him that sometimes, a little elf magic can make a big difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpectedly Merry Christmas

Richard liked to think of himself as a moderately easygoing person who didn’t really feel stress or deep loathing for anything in particular – but there was one exception.

That exception was going to the mall in the week before Christmas.

And yet here he was.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like people (okay, maybe it was, at least a little bit) but he just tended to prefer to do his shopping when he wasn’t surrounded by a thousand other customers, all pushing and jostling and occasionally coming to blows over the last toy on the shelf. No, he’d bought all his gifts the month before, when the shops were nice and quiet, and they were all neatly wrapped and labelled in a box under his bed, ready to go under the tree on Christmas Eve. The plan had been to get all the shopping out of the way early, and spend the week leading up to the big day itself enjoying some quiet time with his sister and her family, who were visiting for the holidays, avoiding the public as much as he could in the process.

And yes, he was acutely aware of the irony of someone who preferred their own company living in one of the biggest, most frantic cities in the world, rather than in a cabin in the woods upstate where he could go weeks without seeing another person. Maybe one day he would get his life organised and do just that – but it certainly wasn’t going to happen on the twentieth of December. No, instead he had been condemned to a trip to the mall with his sister and twin nephews, aged five ( _and three quarters_ – as they reminded everyone on a regular basis, lest anyone think they were closer to age five than six), so they could do the last of their Christmas shopping.

“When is Uncle Brent coming?” Seb asked plaintively, tugging on Richard’s hand as they headed inside, and he revised his previous conclusion: he had been condemned to a trip to the mall so they could do the last of their Christmas shopping _and_ inadvertently continue to remind him of how painfully single and lonely he was.

Uncle Brent wasn’t going to be spending Christmas with them – because Uncle Brent was most likely in Ibiza, most likely high out of his mind, and most likely balls deep in the youngest, prettiest boy he could find.

It wasn’t really an image Richard liked to dwell on.

“Uncle Brent is away, remember?” Sophie said, shooting Richard an apologetic look over the top of Tom’s head. Tom had insisted that he didn’t want to walk, and while she had perfected the art of arranging him precariously around her slowly emerging bump, it wasn’t going to be long before it became physically impossible. The twins were deliriously excited about the addition to the family, of course, but were still struggling to grasp the fact that the baby in Mummy’s tummy meant that she couldn’t pick them both up at once and carry them everywhere.

Then again, having an easily distracted Tom on one hip meant that while he gawked at his foreign surroundings, she could lean in and talk to Richard.

“I know I’ve got to have that conversation with them – I’d sort of been hoping that if I left it long enough, they would forget about him on their own.”

“Yeah, and I’d sort of been hoping that I could do the same thing.”

“Oh, Rich,” she sighed, looping her free arm around his waist and giving it a squeeze, “I’m sorry.”

Richard was sorry, too.

He’d met Brent when he was living in London – he was out for dinner with some visiting friends who’d dragged him to a new restaurant that was very definitely Not His Sort Of Thing, and Brent was at the next table over. He’d spent the meal shooting Richard little smiles and finally eyeing him pointedly before he got up to order some more drinks. It only made sense for Richard to follow him, curious despite himself. He discovered that Brent was a New Yorker, in London for a week-long conference, and he should have written things off then and there but he couldn’t, too attracted to that wicked humour and almost embarrassingly loud laugh (and, okay, the way he filled out a suit might have featured in there too) and the way that he looked at Richard like he was the only other person in the world.

They spent the rest of the week together before Brent had to go home, but he found excuse after excuse to hop across the ditch as often as he could (worming his way into Richard’s toddler nephews’ lives and hearts with foreign gifts and a willingness to play games with them for hours on end), and nearly a year to the day after they met Richard was packing up his life and buying a one-way ticket to be with him in New York.

The thing about a fire that bright, though, was that it didn’t take long to burn out.

Admittedly, the good times had lasted the better part of a year after Richard moved over. Brent could function on surprisingly little sleep – getting up early and heading to work, leaving Richard to stretch out in their luxurious California king and snatch a couple more hours before starting to write. He would flit between a number of cafes within a five block radius of the apartment, a list which he’d carefully honed based on noise and customer levels, or sometimes take pen and paper to Central Park, a ludicrously short distance away. He’d meet Brent – and whoever else – for drinks and dinner after work (which he enjoyed, he did, really, though sometimes it would have been nicer to go to bed at ten with a book, but somehow Brent’s presence meant he couldn’t mind too much), which almost always ended in the two of them stumbling home at two or three in the morning, indulging in some spectacular sex before crashing – and then waking up a few hours later to do it all again.

But eventually, it started to become ever so slightly exhausting, and Richard had begun to make his excuses.

The first time Brent made plans for dinner without inviting him, Richard had barely noticed.

The first time he stayed out all night, Richard put it down to work.

And the first time Richard had come home unexpectedly to find him fucking someone else in that California king of theirs, he probably wasn’t as surprised or upset as he should have been. (Plus – and he could admit this now, months later, and it wouldn’t sound quite so callous – it had ended up being an excellent source of material for his writing.)

He’d been living in a grotty little studio in the six months since, the kind where he had to fold the bed away if he wanted to open the door, where he had to hunch if he wanted to get his head under the shower spray, and where his cooking options were markedly more limited than they had been in Brent’s fancy apartment which had significantly more on the kitchen front than a bar fridge and a microwave. His first real Manhattan flatting experience, he’d thought drily the first time he turned his key in the lock. But it was cheap (moderately) and central (somewhat) and, perhaps most importantly, as he’d discovered during the house-hunting process, insect and rodent-free (completely – so far).

However, it was not the sort of abode into which he could invite his family for Christmas – so it was a good thing that Michael, Sophie’s husband, was so well-connected. He had buddies all around the globe that he’d met through work, not least in Manhattan, and one of them was conveniently away over Christmas and had offered up his apartment for them to stay in for a couple of weeks. For some reason, he hadn’t baulked at the prospect of his immaculate home being overrun by the boys, or by strangers celebrating the holidays there. And, best of all, there was a spare room with Richard’s name on it (accompanied by an en suite, the size of his whole studio, with which he was completely infatuated).

In retrospect, he didn’t miss Brent now so much as the affection and security that had come with being one half of a couple. He had concluded, lying back on his too-small bed one night with a plastic mug of wine, that his next relationship (assuming he could find another person who would tolerate him) would have to be with someone who brought him out of his shell, rather than pushing him back into it. He’d realised that over time, he’d become quieter and quieter in a subconscious attempt to neutralise Brent’s charm and exuberance, and it wasn’t an attitude that he liked on himself that much.

He loved recklessly – he always had – and maybe he wasn’t very good at establishing whether he and his partner had the same life plans and goals. He had assumed that Brent was The One – they made each other happy, their humour was definitely right along the same wavelength, and the sex had always been amazing – but he clearly hadn’t given enough consideration to the fact that he was ready to settle down and live a quiet life whereas Brent decidedly was not. That explained why he was having a peaceful family Christmas in the city, while Brent… well, he was doing whatever he was doing. Richard’s initial assumption that it involved taking drugs and having sex in some tropical location probably wasn’t too far off the mark, and since Brent had deleted him on Facebook it wasn’t as if he could check. (Plus, if he did, finding out that his suspicions were correct would probably only further darken his mood.)

But despite all the sensible conclusions that he’d reached since the break up in spring about them being badly-matched and generally Not Meant To Be, there was clearly something about the holiday season that brought out the melancholy in him. It didn’t help that the mall was overrun with couples and families – and even though he was with Sophie and Tom and Seb, it just wasn’t quite the same, only serving as a reminder of everything he was missing out on.

He knew that the breakup had served as the impetus for Sophie and Michael to make the trip over – it was the first time they’d spent Christmas away from the UK – and he was pathetically grateful. His funds didn’t really run to a visit home, especially not during the holidays, and he would have spent the day locked in his apartment, probably writing, undoubtedly drinking, and definitely feeling sorry for himself.

That wasn’t to say that he wasn’t feeling at least a little bit sorry for himself regardless, though – something that Sophie had clearly picked up on, based on the worry on her face, and the way she hadn’t let go of his waist as they walked, almost (but for the obvious genetic links between the four of them) looking like a picture perfect family.

It was definitely time for a change of topic.

“How’s she doing in there?”

“Asleep for now,” Sophie said, unconsciously letting him go to rub her stomach in the same way she’d done when she was pregnant with the boys. The movement was endearingly familiar and never failed to make Richard smile – but it took him back to a time more than six years ago, when he was brighter-eyed and a hopeful romantic, and the world was his oyster and he never doubted that everything would settle into place in the not-too-distant future.

“Here’s hoping it stays that way,” he offered, “give you a bit of peace.”

“And speaking of peace – are you still okay to go and get those things we talked about while I take the boys to find their present for Daddy?”

The main ‘thing’ in question was some extra wrapping paper that looked different to the paper that had been used to wrap all of the other presents under the extravagant tree in Michael’s friend’s home – this would be reserved for the gifts from Santa, which would only appear on Christmas morning. And of course he was happy to go and get it.

But this was the mall, and it was the week before Christmas, and he could think of a thousand places he would rather be. That feeling was only exacerbated as he waded through the crowd to the book and stationery store where he hoped he’d find some nice wrapping paper, being bumped and shoved by numerous people en route. Despite the cavernous size of the mall, the number of visitors was making it uncomfortably hot, and he shed his coat as he walked in an attempt to cool down.

This store was no exception to the frenzy, and he eyed it with trepidation. It was normally somewhere he would love to frequent, spending hours picking over the selection of pens and notepads – or, better yet, leafing through the novels and absorbing both their new-book smell and the entire universes that they contained. He wasn’t going to have the chance to do that today – not when he could already see the staggering number of people inside. Instead, he was a man on a mission.

Step one: locate wrapping paper in labyrinthine store.

Step two: choose least heinous wrapping paper available.

Step three: pay for wrapping paper.

Step four: escape.

It should have been that straightforward – and, if he’d been doing it last week, it would have taken five minutes tops. But today, the shop was understaffed and positively teeming, and the Christmas wrapping paper inexplicably wasn’t grouped with all of the other Christmas merchandise, or with the rest of the wrapping and ribboning supplies. When he eventually did find it, there were only a few sad rolls left, none of which were particularly attractive. Concluding that the boys wouldn’t care one iota about the presentation of their gifts, he grabbed a couple of different options and then headed to the front to pay – and that was where the next problem arose, due to the eighty-odd people who were already in the queue. Internally cursing whoever had thought it a good idea to only staff three of the registers, he joined the line and prepared to wait.

It crawled along at a snail’s pace while getting longer and longer, its tail curling around into the magazine aisle, and Richard wondered how much he would have aged by the time he finally made it out of the shop.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only person who was concerned.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

The complaint came from behind him, quiet enough to be audible only to the nearest couple of people, but audible nonetheless. He turned around to offer a sympathetic smile – after all, he was thinking exactly the same thing – to be met with an extremely guilty expression on what was, for all intents and purposes, an extremely lovely face.

“Sorry, that kind of came out louder than I’d expected. Just running late.”

He didn’t mean to stare.

He really didn’t.

It was just difficult when the man standing in front of him (well, behind him, technically) was so disarmingly gorgeous, a suit bag hanging over one arm and a small stack of books curled under the other.

He was clean-shaven (Richard ran a hand over his week’s growth self-consciously, wishing he had the motivation to tidy it up every day like this man clearly did), a good couple of inches taller than Richard, messy-haired and hazel-eyed, sporting a white t-shirt and a grey zip-up hoodie that looked so soft that Richard was overcome with an almost uncontrollable urge to bury his face in it, and – and he was looking back at Richard with something resembling concern, because Richard had been standing there gawping at him like an idiot before he came to, registering his words and responding in the only way he really could.

“Oh – I’m sorry – well, by all means, go ahead of me.” He stepped to one side – as much as he could, anyway – and the man gave him a surprised look.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I mean, you’re obviously in more of a hurry than me, so it’s not a problem at all.”

Jesus, he was usually so much more articulate than this. Even that first evening with Brent, he liked to think he’d been coherent – after all, he’d managed to sparkle enough to have the man come back for more.

(Was he really comparing his first conversation with the man he’d dated for two years to a few stuttering sentences in a queue at the mall?)

The woman in front of Richard had turned around at the sound of the conversation, but when the man eyed her hopefully, clearly wondering if he could bump his way a little closer to the front of the line, she gave him a haughty look as if to tell him that the answer to that unspoken question was a very definite no.

“Well, I’ll save myself a minute,” he shrugged with a grin, “and I do appreciate the gesture – means I’m fractionally more likely to get to work on time, anyway.” He gestured to his suit bag with a rueful look.

Richard blinked. “Do you work here?” For some reason, he could picture the man wearing a suit in a professional setting much more clearly than he could imagine him behind the counter in a shop: for starters, he was so tall he would have to practically kneel every time he wanted to get money out of the till.

Then again – Richard was fairly sure he could convince him to buy just about anything in the world with that stupidly beautiful smile.

“Sure do.”

“Customer service?”

That gave him pause – unusually so, though Richard wouldn’t realise that until much later. “Something like that,” he eventually conceded with a funny little half-laugh, not offering any further details and clearly wanting to turn the spotlight off himself – and onto Richard. “How about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Wow, really? Anything I might have read?”

“Not that kind of writer,” he revised, wanting to disillusion the man swiftly lest he think he was talking to a bestselling author, “just freelance articles, the odd short story, that kind of thing. Copywriting when I get really desperate, or when I’m running out of food.”

Christ, Richard, shut it.

But the man laughed like it was a great joke, and the awkward little knot in Richard’s chest dissolved at the sound. “Yeah, I know that feeling. But we all have to take jobs we don’t want from time to time to make ends meet, right?”

Richard nodded, offering up a smile that he hoped came across as at least somewhat companionable, wanting the conversation to continue but quite unable to think of anything intelligent to say or ask that wouldn’t come across as too strange or invasive, considering that they were strangers in a queue and nothing more.

Thankfully, the man didn’t notice his internal turmoil, and had no qualms about asking the questions himself.

“So – what are your plans for the big day?”

He’d never learned quite so much about a stranger as he had in the minutes it took for them to reach the front of the line. He knew that the man was spending Christmas with his aunt and uncle’s family in New Jersey (all absolute bibliophiles, hence his little pile of books), because his parents lived in Texas and he didn’t have time to drive down since he was scheduled to work right up until Christmas Eve. The house would be overrun with children, but that didn’t bother him at all because he didn’t see them as often as he would like and besides, he loved kids. They would Skype the family in Texas after lunch and open the presents they’d bought for each other in front of the webcam. He was hoping that most of his relatives had pooled their funds to buy him a new camera (he’d spent months laying the groundwork for the gift, telling everyone about the trip to Italy that he was desperate to go on in the next couple of years and lamenting the inadequacy of his current point-and-shoot camera, already years out of date and which took lower quality photos than even his phone could manage). But it was the food that he was most excited about: his aunt’s sweet potato casserole that had a secret ingredient that none of the rest of the family could wheedle out of her, and a cherry pie that had been a staple of his Christmases for as long as he could remember. Richard asked a few questions about that, if only to make the man say the words ‘cherry pie’ as many times as he could in that warm Texan drawl that he didn’t think he’d ever heard in Manhattan before.

The man had laughed when Richard had lamented the consumerism of Christmas (an opinion he held strongly that _always_ came up in conversation around this time of year, and usually ended with whoever he was subjecting the rant to rolling their eyes, telling him – albeit usually nicely – to stop being such a grumpy old man, and changing the topic. It was quite a refreshing change to not get such a reaction this time). “I understand what you’re saying, I do,” he told Richard earnestly, “but at the same time, I’ve seen kids literally cry tears of joy when they unwrap that toy that they’ve been wanting for months and painstakingly saving up for, and you can’t tell me that’s not a special little moment.”

Beyond discussion of his Christmas plans, though, Richard’s new friend had offered up a number of other snippets about himself (and coaxed some out of Richard in the process – when he’d mentioned that he’d moved to New York less than two years ago and had some family visiting from England, the man had latched onto it, the conversation immediately turning to his accent and the town he’d grown up in). The man loved dogs but his controlling landlord – and, unfortunately, allergic roommate – meant that getting one was out of the question. He dreamed about having a house, somewhere nice and peaceful, a real home of his own rather than an apartment, where he could do what he wanted, including having pets. One of the other highlights of visiting family in Jersey was hanging out with his aunt and uncle’s dogs, who were suckers for a different face and would do their best to wrangle all the belly rubs they could out of him. While he didn’t divulge any more details of his employment, he did confess that he’d always wanted to be a teacher, preferably of elementary-age kids – though he had taken a few years off before going to college and hadn’t been able to find a permanent, stable teaching job since graduation (a predicament with which Richard, the perpetual freelancer, could most definitely sympathise).

He preferred snowy winters to sticky summers, coffee to tea (Richard, the perennial Englishman, made his thoughts on that blasphemy clear, which earned an inappropriately loud laugh that made him irrationally pleased with himself), and exploring new cities rather than lounging on a beach. He loved carols – yes, of course they veered back to the holidays, especially given the songs blaring out of the speakers as they waited – even though he was adamant that he wasn’t much of a singer, especially in public. He was a miserable cook, an early riser and morning runner, a huge sap when it came to Christmas movies, and never as punctual as he would like to be because he got distracted so easily (his initial concern about the delay appeared to be fading by the minute, and while Richard wasn’t going to attribute it to the scintillating conversation he was doing his best to offer, it was a nice theory).

What Richard didn’t know, however, were the more fundamentally important things – like the man’s name, whether he was single, whether his hair and lips were as soft as they looked and how easily the curve of that neck would bruise under his teeth. 

Oh, shit.

He’d never been the type for one night stands, even in the aftermath of Brent. No, he was (somewhat embarrassingly) an old-fashioned romantic – he wanted dates and shy smiles and nervous brushes of hands, and going to a bar and picking up a stranger for a messy fuck didn’t really do much for him.

That applied equally to a stranger in line at the stationery shop, even if said stranger had an incredibly disarming smile and a laugh that made Richard’s heart stutter in his chest.

It did.

Yes.

His favourite part of the conversation, though, hadn’t been the conversation at all – it had come from someone shoving at the back of the line, an act that had started a domino effect as everyone started to push further and further forward. The person behind Richard had stumbled, grabbing for Richard in an attempt to steady themselves, and he would have done the same thing if not for the man he’d been talking to shooting out a hand to catch him.

And so his favourite thing had been the warmth of that hand, settling on his arm to steady him and lingering there for just a few seconds longer than it would have had this only been a chance meeting that would never lead to anything more. Despite his earlier internal protestations, Richard had never been quite so grateful for the heat in the mall – if it wasn’t so warm, he wouldn’t have had his coat folded over his other arm, and he probably wouldn’t have felt the man’s touch through the thick material at all.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, and Richard just nodded stupidly, mourning the loss of contact immediately.

“Some people – always so anxious to get to the front of the line. Not that I can talk, I suppose,” he added, checking his watch again and giving a tiny sigh at the time. He started work in six minutes, and he still had to get there and get his uniform on – there was no way he was going to make it. And yet, oddly, he seemed much less fazed about that fact than he had a few minutes previously, before they’d really started to talk.

“Me neither,” Richard commented, “I’m normally anxious to get out of a busy shop as fast as possible.”

“And today?”

“Today…” He hesitated for a second. Oh, fuck it. He might as well just say it. What was the worst that could happen? “Today I don’t seem to mind so much.”

A slow, wide smile spread over the man’s face, something warm and lovely in his eyes, and Richard realised suddenly that he wasn’t the only enamoured party to this conversation.

And it felt really good.

“I –”

“Next!” called one of the employees at the registers, waving a hand to signal the next person forward – and somehow, most unfortunately, that person was the man he’d been talking to.

It was the first time Richard could ever remember regretting reaching the front of a queue, especially when the shop was heaving with customers in a Christmas frenzy.

The man looked to him, to the register, and then back to him, opening and closing his mouth like he was trying to summon up the courage to say something.

“So, um, this might be crazy, but – do you –“

“ _Next!_ ” the girl repeated, now looking slightly irritated, a faint murmur rising from the rest of the line in objection to being held up further.

“Go on,” Richard said (albeit unwillingly), “you don’t want to cause a riot.”

The man shot him a small smile in concession, apparently equally unhappy that the conversation was at an end.

“Thank you. And, um… Well, Merry Christmas, I suppose.”

“And to you,” Richard said softly, wishing he had the balls to ask the man for his number, even though he knew that even if he had he wouldn’t have had time to do so before the people behind him in the queue revolted.

A final touch of his arm, one last smile, and he walked away from Richard and up to the register. And by the time Richard had finished paying for his own things, the man had already gone.

He let himself hope, for a few seconds, that when he left the shop he would be there waiting for him and would ask whatever it was that had been on the tip of his tongue. He knew it was unrealistic, though – the man had a job to go to, after all, and surely he wouldn’t waste any more time than strictly necessary – and so it wasn’t a surprise that there was no sign of him when Richard finally emerged, clutching his wrapping paper to his chest.

Not that that stopped him smiling to himself as he completed the rest of his errands and then wandered the whole way back to the agreed rendez-vous point, completely oblivious to the crush of people surrounding him. There had been something so very lovely about the whole interaction – even if it was apparently going to be a fleeting moment and nothing more. As much as he hadn’t wanted to come to the mall in the first place… suddenly the whole trip seemed worth it. At some selfish level, too, it was reassuring to know both that there was the odd person out there who would tolerate his conversation (even if this one hadn’t had much of a choice) and that he could still hold a moderately intelligible conversation with someone he found staggeringly attractive.

And staggeringly attractive the man was.

He really, really was.

Not even the fact that Sophie immediately picked up on the vibes he was emanating and started quizzing him as soon as he sat down could put a dent in his good mood.

“I’m just saying, you look way too happy for someone who was dragged here against their will,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously, and he shrugged, surreptitiously sliding the bag containing the wrapping paper under the table so Sophie could hide it in the car with the boys’ presents after she’d finished her solo shopping.

“Must be the Christmas spirit.”

“Right,” she replied, clearly not believing him in the slightest, “so you’re still good to take them to see Santa? Maybe take them to the food court afterwards, get a snack of some description, give me a call, and I’ll come and meet you.”

“What will you do?”

“Sit here for a bit, order some chamomile tea, take deep breaths and see if I can quieten this one down, and then go and do my other errands.” She gestured to her bump, stretching the fabric of her jersey, and anxiety swooped in his stomach. Oh, he’d taken too long.

“You should have told me sooner.”

“Stop it, Richard. See – that worrying face? Don’t do that. I’ve been here before, remember? And trust me, two are more energetic than one.”

“You’ll call if there’s a problem,” he said, unwilling to leave her by herself, but simultaneously knowing that he was being far too overprotective. He’d been exactly the same when she was pregnant with Tom and Seb, and she’d had to tolerate it constantly – especially given that she’d only been a short drive away, rather than across an ocean.

“Of course, Richard. Now, come on – let me see that goofy smile you had on before.”

It wasn’t hard to summon up – all he had to do was think of the man in the queue.

“There we go,” she said, pleased, “but don’t think you can avoid explaining later what’s got you so happy. I know it’s not just Christmas, not when you’re surrounded by thousands of frenzied shoppers. The last time I saw you like this was when we came to visit the summer before last.”

He remembered that visit fondly – Michael had had to come over for a conference and had decided to turn the trip into a family holiday, staying an extra weekend on either side. While Michael and Brent were working, Richard took Sophie and the boys around some of his favourite spots in the city, where they relished the sticky heat and retreated to the air-conditioned apartment when it got to be too much. Some nights the six of them went out, others they put the boys to bed early and stayed in with a bottle or two of wine, and Richard had been disappointed to say the least when it was time for them to leave. But the reason he’d been smiling so much during that trip (seeing his family aside) had been his relationship, still in that stage of delirious perfection where they were so very much in love.

And then – oh, shit – Sophie’s face took on an analytical expression. It was one he knew well – it meant she’d figured things out. The downside of being so close to a sibling, he mused, was that she could always work out when he was hiding something. And sure enough –

“So,” she said faux-casually, “what was his name?”

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered, acknowledging that she was in fact right (like always) and reflecting briefly on the idiocy of his failure to take anything tangible away from the conversation – not an email address, not a phone number, not even a name for some creepy google-stalking when he next had some time to himself.

“Stop that,” she commanded, “don’t be down about it. I’m just glad to see you smiling about a man again after so long, even if it isn’t going to turn into anything more. Did you talk to him, or just admire him from afar? Make gooey eyes at each other across the room?”

“I talked to him. We talked to each other,” he amended, lest she think he had just burbled relentlessly at a good-looking stranger until the man made his excuses and fled. “He was… He was just really lovely.”

“Then just think about that, and how happy the conversation made you – I know it did make you happy, because it’s written all over your face.”

“It did,” he admitted – that traitorous smile reappearing slightly, and appeasing Sophie. And it was true – now that he thought about it, this was the first time since he and Brent split up that he’d met someone, held a coherent and mildly flirtatious conversation, and walked away feeling positive about it. Somehow Sophie knew that, despite the fact that their weekly chats tended to gloss over the minute details of his relationship status (or lack thereof) in favour of – well, just about any other topic, really. She had to know he was avoiding the subject, but she never called him out on it, and for that he had always been grateful.

He should probably do as she said, though, and appreciate the moment for what it was, instead of regretting the things he should have said or done and lamenting what might have been. He couldn’t make the same promise to himself once the holiday had come and gone and he was alone again, but for now, it would be okay.

And what better way to distract himself from thoughts of the man than a visit to Santa with the boys?

So he held out his hands for the boys, who each took one obligingly. (There was something about the trust implied in the gesture that always made his heart do a funny little flip, making him think of a day in the apparently very distant future where he would have one or two – or hell, as many as he could, really – more looking up at him and calling him not Uncle but Daddy.)

“Okay, who’s ready to go and see Father Christmas?”

“Meeeee!”

Less than ten minutes later, Richard could feel his hair greying and his previously prominent desire to have children slowly shrivelling away into nothing as they waited to enter Santa’s grotto. Tom and Seb were angelic, of course, standing quietly and patiently as the line crawled forward, but he couldn’t say the same for the majority of the others. There were sick kids, coughing and snivelling from the harsh winter; hungry kids who wanted a snack and didn’t care who knew it; kids who were bouncing up and down and yelling in their excitement to see Santa; and kids who were wailing for no apparent reason. It was a relief to finally reach the front of the line and be beckoned forward by a shop assistant, who directed them around the corner and through a temporary curtain and into a makeshift grotto, a sufficiently jolly-looking Santa in his seat ahead of them, and – and –

And flanking Santa were two elves, and one of them was the man who he’d been so captivated by in line at the stationery shop.

What had he said during their conversation?

He loved Christmas.

He loved children.

_Customer service._

The man, it had to be said, looked thoroughly mortified – as though he wished he was anywhere but there. The elf costume was just a bit too tight for him everywhere: the gaudy red and green jacket straining at the shoulders and across his chest even though it was clearly meant to be a loose fit (judging by the wide flapping sleeves) and ending a good few inches higher than it was meant to. The black leggings finished just above his ankles and while they too would have been baggy on someone who wasn’t well over six foot with amazing thighs (no, Richard wasn’t above looking, and hell if it wasn’t an appealing sight), on this man they were decidedly _not,_ and Richard concluded that none of the presents he could get on Christmas Day itself would top the sight in front of him. Likewise, the bright red shoes were clearly made for someone much smaller, the curled ends misshapen by the length of the feet filling them. At least the jaunty hat (finished off with a little cluster of bells on the tip to match those on his shoes and around the neckline and sleeves) fitted on his head – though, going by the man’s expression, it was unfortunate that it wasn’t big enough for him to tug down to cover his face in shame.

At least Richard knew now what had been in the suit bag.

He spent a few seconds sorting through his thoughts, searching for an appropriate pun, before realising that he couldn’t say anything anyway because as far as the twins were concerned, the man was a genuine elf from the North Pole and god forbid Richard do anything that could lead to Sophie having to tell them that Santa wasn’t real.

“Hi, everyone!” the female elf cheered, almost alarmingly upbeat. (Maybe she, too, had only just started her shift.) “I’m Honeycomb Frostlights, but you can call me Honey, and this is my friend Merry Gingerbubbles. And, of course, this is Santa Claus!”

The man – Merry, apparently – looked more than a little ashamed of the moniker. Richard couldn’t blame him. But as soon as he started talking to the boys he melted seamlessly into character, all bright eyes and big smiles, offering them candy out of his little sack. “Now, I’ve got a question that I hope you can help me with,” he said seriously, “are you brothers?”

The boys nodded simultaneously. Sophie and Michael had noticed years ago that they were uncannily in sync, and would frequently mirror each other without trying – the nodding was just one of many examples, but it always made Richard smile, and this time was no exception.

“Twins,” Tom confirmed authoritatively, “but I’m fourteen minutes older, and we’re getting a new sister soon.”

“Ain’t that something,” Merry grinned, “I wish I had a twin brother. I bet you’re best friends, hmm?” This time, he directed the question at Seb, but didn’t get quite the same response. Instead of engaging and smiling like Tom was, Seb was still eyeing Merry with consternation, clearly not quite sold on the whole setup – and more than willing to vocalise his concerns.

“You’re too tall to be an elf.”

Richard had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing. It was a fair call – Merry was definitely tall, while Honey was probably at least a foot shorter, fine-boned and dainty and distinctly more elfish, with a costume that actually fitted her – and neither of the twins had ever been known to hold back on stating the obvious in that childish, straightforward way.

“Well,” he said, squatting down as low as he could (and even then he towered over them) with an earnest look on his face, “that’s because I ate all my vegetables when I was growing up. And as it turns out, it’s a good thing I’m so tall, because it means that I can get things off the top shelves in the factory where we make all the toys when no one else can reach them. And you know what else? I’ve got really long legs, which are good for running after and catching naughty reindeer.” The boys laughed in delight (Richard smiling at the mental image as well), and Merry looked up again. “Isn’t that right, Santa?”

“Oh, yes,” Santa agreed, “Merry’s one of my most helpful elves. You’re very lucky he’s here today – normally he has to stay at the North Pole to keep an eye on things for me.”

Richard was keeping an eye on things, too – specifically, both eyes on the legs in question. He couldn’t help it, especially not when Merry had drawn his attention back to them. And he definitely couldn’t help the scenarios involving those legs that his brain was helpfully providing.

(How many different kinds of wrong was it to be checking out a Christmas elf? And, perhaps even more importantly, was he really going to get an erection in front of Santa?)

Look away, he told himself sternly, look away.

“So,” Honey said, “would anyone like to hop on Santa’s knee and tell him what they want for Christmas?”

The boys didn’t hesitate for a moment when Santa patted said knee invitingly, scrambling up there in unison (albeit with a little help from the elves). Richard hung back – according to Sophie, the boys had been pretty vocal about what they wanted, so she’d sorted their major presents before they made the trip over – instead taking the opportunity to watch Merry some more, unable to help the way his eyes were roaming greedily over the costume, trying to drink it all in and memorise it for later. When his gaze reached the man’s face, though, he realised that he was considering Richard in exactly the same way.

When Merry realised he’d been caught – and it took a few more seconds, during which Richard revelled in the feeling of someone admiring him so visibly, because Christ knew it hadn’t happened for a while – an embarrassed flush spread over his face. He ducked his head, biting his lip, and then two seconds later he was peeking back up at Richard, sneaking another glance from under that obnoxious hat.

It was so obvious – even Richard could recognise it as a textbook flirtatious move – that he wanted to laugh out loud. (And yeah, okay, he sort of wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him a whole lot.)

“What about Daddy?” Honey asked the twins, gesturing to Richard. “How about he lets Santa know what he wants for Christmas, too?”

Jesus Christ.

It was telling, though, that he was equally concerned by the suggestion as the way that Merry’s face had turned slightly sour, the cheerful smile disappearing in an instant. It could only have been one word that caused such a reaction.

_Daddy._

And it was pretty damn gratifying to see.

“It’s quite alright,” he said hastily, but no, the twins’ faces had lit up at the prospect.

“Yeah!”

He sat down gingerly, acutely aware of the fact that he was at least four or five times as heavy as the kids who Santa was used to having on his knee, trying to bear most of his weight on his feet and almost squatting above the man’s thigh. His face was flushed from shame, probably the same colour as Santa’s getup, and he was grateful that the grotto wasn’t visible to everyone else in the queue because they would surely all be taking pictures and laughing if they could see how utterly ridiculous he looked. To be fair, he probably wasn’t the most uncomfortable person in the room – that had to be the poor man, probably twenty years’ Richard’s senior, who had been roped into dressing up as Santa. Having a fully-grown adult on his lap almost certainly hadn’t been part of the job description, and funnily enough, he didn’t seem to be enjoying it a whole lot, either.

The twins, however, thought it was hysterical, and that was the only reason Richard didn’t get up, instead turning to Santa, opening his mouth, and drawing a blank.

Mercifully, the elves took over, both squatting down to the boys’ height conspiratorially. “What do you think – what should Daddy ask for?”

“That’s not Daddy,” Tom said helpfully, “that’s Uncle Richard.”

Merry’s head jerked up, his eyes meeting Richard’s, and then that smile reappeared, warmer than ever, as he realised that the boys did not in fact belong to Richard. (It was an easy conclusion to draw, particularly in Sophie’s absence – the four of them shared the same eye shape and hair colour and without her it was entirely reasonable for a stranger to conclude that Tom and Seb were his sons).

Now, if only there was some way to convey his single status…

“Uncle Richard, then,” he repeated, sounding like he was testing the name out (and hell, Richard would be lying if he said he didn’t love the way it sounded in that gorgeous accent), “what should Santa give him?”

The twins shared a thoughtful look.

“A puppy,” Seb plumped for, after a few seconds of silent communication.

“Uncle Richard likes dogs, does he?”

Two more matching nods.

“Mummy says that he’s lonely, and if he had a puppy he wouldn’t be lonely anymore.”

Jesus _Christ,_ Richard repeated mentally, he was going to have to have stern words with Sophie about having private conversations out of earshot now that the boys were old enough to absorb her words and then regurgitate them at the most inopportune of moments.

Then again, going by the way that Merry’s eyes were still fixed on him, it possibly wasn’t such a bad thing.

After further prompting from Tom and Seb, he turned to Santa obligingly, the man wincing slightly at what little of Richard’s weight he was bearing, and declared that he would indeed like a puppy for Christmas. To be fair, it was true – god, he would love to have a dog, maybe more than one, but it would be inhumane to keep one in his tiny shoebox studio and anyway, his jackass of a landlord would be absolutely apoplectic. Maybe, he thought to himself, not for the first time, maybe when he bought that secluded house he kept dreaming of, he would get a dog. Until then… well, he would keep staring longingly at other people’s whenever he was out in public.

“Well, well,” Santa boomed, “that sounds like a tall order, Richard, but how about this? I’ll get one of my elves to send a message to the North Pole to check what we can do for you, and you keep an eye out under the tree on Christmas morning, hmm?”

Mercifully, he was allowed to climb off after that – but Santa, feeling much more benevolent now that Richard wasn’t crushing him, suggested that they take a few photos before leaving. The twins leapt back onto his lap and insisted that Honey and Merry flank them, too, everyone pulling out their best wide smiles as Richard lifted his phone.

Merry, however, didn’t look at _it_ but at _him,_ a surprising affection in his gaze that made Richard’s stomach do a funny little lurch, and he knew he was going to be spending a whole lot of time absorbed in this picture in the near (and possibly not so near) future just so he could revel in the fact that someone could and would still look at him like that, not least someone as beautiful as Merry.

“One more – all focusing on the camera this time,” he added, keeping his expression neutral, almost disappointed when Merry did as he’d directed, his line of sight shifting downwards to focus on the phone instead of Richard’s face.

“And how about I take one of the whole family with Santa?” Honey suggested, tugging the phone out of Richard’s grasp and pushing him slightly towards the rest of the group.

Well, it would be rude to say no.

This time Merry moved to stand slightly behind Santa’s seat, and Richard mirrored him – and so what if they each took one step closer to each other than necessary to fit in the shot?

“Closer,” Honey encouraged, looking suspiciously like she was fighting back a smile.

Their shoulders bumped together.

And Merry’s hand snaked around his waist, a palm pressed to the small of his back, and he looked up in astonishment to be met with the warmest smile he’d ever had anyone turn on him and Christ, it was dazzling, like looking at the sun. He couldn’t help but beam back, unconsciously leaning back against the semi-embrace, so mesmerised by the moment that he didn’t even notice Honey taking the picture until she spoke again.

Okay, scrap that – _this_ was the image he was going to treasure.

“Everyone looking at the camera this time,” she said, echoing Richard from moments before, and he managed to drag his eyes away from Merry for long enough for her to press the button a second time.

He didn’t look at the pictures, opting instead to gaze at the man himself for as long as he could, hanging back as the boys received their gifts from Santa’s sack, unidentified goodies in bags tied with gaudy ribbons. Merry had slipped right back into character, all broad smiles and convincing tales about life at the North Pole – he even sat down on the floor and let both boys clamber onto his lap for a few minutes. Seb had overcome his initial suspicion and was peppering him with question after question – Merry looked happy enough to answer them (more than happy, actually – he looked like he was really enjoying himself) but Richard was regrettably aware that there was a long line of people outside still waiting for their turn in the grotto. That awareness was only heightened when the shop assistant who’d shown them in peeked through the curtain to check that they were winding things up, giving Richard a mildly reproachful look – clearly the hold up was his fault and his fault alone.

There was only one thing for it.

“Who’s ready for ice cream?”

Whatever attention that Merry had held was swiftly lost as the boys turned to each other and then to Richard, excited grins splitting their faces as they slid off his lap and hurtled over to Richard. They didn’t need to answer in words – it was clear from their expressions. (It was as if they hadn’t had ice cream in months, when Richard knew full well that they’d both stuffed their faces with the strawberry sundaes they’d had at the restaurant they’d all been to the night before.)

“Come on, then,” he said, “we better go now, just in case the shop runs out.”

“Uncle Richard,” Seb asked plaintively, “can I have a ride on your shoulders?”

“Me too,” Tom declared, “Uncle Richard, can I?”

“You won’t both fit up there,” he said with a smile, “so how about Seb gets a ride to the food court, since he asked first, and then we can get an ice cream and wait for Mummy, and then Tom gets a ride from the food court back to the car?”

That seemed fair enough to the boys, so Richard squatted down for Seb to climb on board. It had been a while, though, and it wasn’t as easy to hoist him up as it used to be.

It was lucky, then, that Merry was there to offer his assistance.

“Let me help,” he said, lifting Seb easily and positioning him atop Richard’s shoulders, little legs hanging over his chest and fingers (unfortunately) knotted in his hair for balance. “All comfortable?” he checked, and Seb must have nodded happily, tugging on Richard’s hair to tell him that he was ready to go.

It was at that moment that Richard realised that he couldn’t stand up.

He hadn’t thought this through very well – normally whenever he settled one of them on his shoulders, he made sure there was something nearby that he could use to pull himself back up. But this time, he had nothing of the sort, and the extra weight had upset his equilibrium and god, Sophie would throttle him if he tried to stand and had an accident while doing so.

“Do you need a hand?” Merry asked with a smirk, clearly able to see the concern on his face, and reached out to help him up – a gesture that he appreciated in more ways than one.

And so he took the proffered hand, curling their fingers together, noting hazily that it was even warmer than he’d expected – based on what limited contact through fabric they’d had before – and fitted in his surprisingly well. Squeezing tight – yes, okay, maybe tighter than he needed to, but no one needed to know that – he let Merry pull him to his feet, Seb mercifully staying in position.

“I’m obviously out of practice,” he grinned, “so… thank you.”

But he didn’t let go of Merry’s hand, the moment stretching on, completely oblivious to the sound of what was unmistakeably Santa clearing his throat in a rather pointed manner.

And, perhaps more tellingly, Merry didn’t make any move to pull away either.

And that was what spurred him on to lift his thumb, dragging it across the bump of each of Merry’s knuckles and the valleys between them, and (yes, he could do it, he could) raising his eyes from their hands to his face to make sure there was no confusion about the intent behind his actions. He revelled in the way that Merry’s hand tightened around his, almost involuntarily, in response – which only prompted him to move his thumb back the way it had come, gratified by the deliberate bob of Merry’s throat as he swallowed hard, his smile having disappeared to make way for something much more intense.

God, if Sophie was here she would be killing herself laughing at how painfully obvious he was being – but it didn’t seem to be going down all that badly, to be honest, and the way that Merry’s gaze kept flickering between his eyes and mouth and their joined hands wasn’t exactly discouraging either.

He could say something.

He could ask Merry for his real name, or his number, or both.

He could lunge forward and press their lips together and see what happened next.

He could –

“Come on,” Tom commanded, completely oblivious to the moment he was ruining (and with very different priorities to Richard, who just wanted to linger there with the other man’s hand in his forever), “the shop might run out of ice cream if we don’t hurry.”

Just like that, the gossamer-thin connection stretching between them snapped.

“And I’m sure there are lots more children waiting outside who are anxious to see Santa,” Honey added, shooting Merry a meaningful look (even if it was tinged with the hint of a cheeky smile), “and we wouldn’t want any of them to miss out, would we?”

“That would be unfortunate,” Santa agreed, his words very clearly directed at Richard. He’d almost forgotten there were other people in the room (other than Tom and Seb, who were too young and preoccupied with the prospect of ice cream to notice) to bear witness to his behaviour. Their words made him flush and he unwillingly let go of Merry’s hand, clearing his throat to try and shake himself out of his stupor.

“Right, of course.” He held out his other hand for Tom, who took it obligingly, and offered a smile to the three of them (trying his best not to focus on Merry).

“Say thank you to Santa, boys.”

“Thank you, Santa,” they chorused, Seb adding a promise to leave out milk and cookies for him (along with carrots for the reindeer, Santa confirming that carrots were in fact their favourite snack and that they would appreciate them very much). And after a final round of Merry Christmases, Honey ushered them out of the grotto – and out of what Richard had decided was probably one of his most memorable Christmas moments ever.

He was so absorbed in cataloguing every aspect of it (which may or may not have included significant consideration of Merry and that goddamn costume, because it really wasn’t something he ever wanted to forget) that he didn’t hear the sound of his name and the jingling bells until Seb pulled on his hair again and Tom twisted out of his grip.

“Look, Uncle Richard, it’s Merry!”

He stopped, turning in disbelief – and, sure enough, there he was, pink in the face and clutching another of the gift bags that they’d given to the boys.

“You left your present behind,” he said, a little breathlessly, pressing it into Richard’s hands (and yes, okay, maybe Richard let their fingers slide through each other a bit more than they needed to but it was worth it, so worth it, to see that expression, all warm and endearing and suddenly very shy).

“Thank you,” he managed – wishing that the boys were distracted or, better yet, with Sophie, because if he was alone with Merry this moment would probably be going down in a very different way – fingers fumbling with the ribbon the bag was tied with, and –

“Uncle Richard!”

Tom sounded completely scandalised, and Richard stilled his movements more out of amusement than anything, wondering what he’d done to cause such great offence.

“You can’t open your present before Christmas!”

He would have laughed if Tom’s words and opinion weren’t so intensely frustrating. Christ, he would go insane if he had to wait any more than a few seconds to see what was inside the bag.

Thankfully, Merry had all the answers.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his tone (and expression) completely serious as he bent down to Tom’s level again. There was something sweet about the way he kept doing that, seemingly out of habit, like he was trying to break down the age and size barrier between them. “Santa told me that he wants you to open them today. He says it’s very important. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yeah,” Tom conceded, some of the concern fading from his voice, “but will he still visit us on Christmas Eve?”

“Of course,” Merry said, “and if you’re really good between now and then, he might even leave you something extra.”

Richard made a mental note to do a last zip around the mall by himself to pick up a final gift for both boys.

“Okay,” Seb agreed, wide-eyed at the prospect of more gifts, “we can be really good.”

“And that means being kind to Uncle Richard, as well,” Merry added, shooting him a sly flicker of a smile, “and making sure he has a happy Christmas. Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”

More frantic nodding all round.

“I’ll make sure to let Santa know, then,” he twinkled, straightening back up to his full height, a good three inches or so taller than Richard.

“Thank you for my present, Merry,” he managed, and earned another of those broad smiles in response. Merry’s hat was tilting precariously and he had to clench his fingers around the bag to stop himself from reaching up and readjusting it and then cupping that face in his hands and –

“Oh, it’s quite alright, believe me.”

Merry was looking at his mouth. Merry was definitely looking at his mouth. And Richard was sure that the want in the man’s eyes was mirrored in his own and god, he wanted to bask in that gaze forever.

“Say thank you to Santa, too,” Seb berated him from atop his shoulders, and Merry hastily turned his laugh into a cough.

“Please thank Santa for me as well,” he parroted, scrounging for something else to say – something that he could get away with saying in front of the boys and that wouldn’t give the man’s non-elfish identity away – but coming up blank yet again.

“Ice cream,” Seb reminded him – and then his time was up.

“I better get back to the grotto – you boys enjoy your ice creams, okay? And make sure you do open those presents.”

Richard watched helplessly, knowing that his last chance to make these two momentary encounters into more was going to slip through his fingers and yet completely unable to do anything about it.

But Merry wasn’t quite so useless – because as he turned to go back to work, he glanced at Richard.

And he winked.

That wink spoke volumes.

It meant there was more.

It had to.

Ignoring the excited thump of his heart, Richard took the boys to get their ice creams (doing his part as doting uncle to make sure they had as much sugar as they could ever want, choosing a more modest cone for himself) and waited until they were settled in before suggesting, almost idly, that they see what Santa had given them.

Tom and Seb tore into their gift bags, both making pleased noises, but Richard couldn’t even bring himself to look up to see what they’d been given, so preoccupied was he with his own present. 

He reached into the bag without looking, his fingers closing around something soft – much softer than he’d expected – and out came a little plush dog, clearly meant to be a Labrador, chocolate brown with big black eyes and fluffy ears and a little collar and –

And tucked into the collar was a note, which he opened with fingers shaking slightly in anticipation.

_For Uncle Richard, who shouldn’t have to be lonely this Christmas._

The sentiment hit him right in the chest, and he felt himself getting unexpectedly choked up, his ice cream forgotten as he stroked the dog’s fur thoughtfully. It wasn’t just the fact that Merry had come after him, having dug through the sack to find an appropriate gift in light of the boys’ comments (but actually, he thought, as he eyed Tom and Seb’s toys, it looked like it was too expensive to have even come from the sack at all, and wasn’t there a big stand of plush animals near the grotto?) but that he’d gone to the trouble to leave a such a lovely little note.

He was so preoccupied with the first line of the message (reading it over and over until he could probably recreate the handwriting from memory) that he almost missed the second – but when he saw it, he was very, very glad he hadn’t.

_– MG (A Free Elf)_

And following those initials (Merry Gingerbubbles indeed, Richard thought, sniffing and stifling his laugh) was what was very definitely a New York phone number.

His heart stopped – and then it started again, a nervous yet undoubtedly excited staccato rhythm as he reached for his phone. He was so eager to contact the man (even though it was probably completely undignified and he was definitely breaking one of the cardinal rules of flirting) that he didn’t even attempt to stop and think and come up with a witty message.

_Send to: Merry  
I hope Santa didn’t reprimand you for abandoning your post?_

The reply took a few minutes – some of the longest of his life – but that had to be expected, since Merry was undoubtedly dealing with more children in the grotto. And sure enough, when about five minutes had elapsed (god, was that how short their own visit had been? It had felt like hours in there, for which Richard was grateful to say the least) and the next family had presumably finished their visit to Santa, his phone vibrated on the table in front of him.

_New message: Merry  
Given that this is the only time of year that Santa lets us out of the factory, I like to think I have a little leeway, especially when it comes to such a gorgeous man wandering into the grotto._

Richard flushed at the unabashed compliment – it felt like a long time since he’d received one, not least from a man as good looking as Merry (or whatever his real name was – it felt quite odd to be having this conversation when he only knew the man by the name of the character he was paid to play.)

The downside of being so out of practice, of course, was that he had no idea how to flirt back.

_Reply to: Merry  
Don’t you have an elf union that can put a stop to such inhumane working conditions? Santa sounds like he’s ripe for a health and safety prosecution…_

_New message: Merry  
Ehh, it has its benefits – particularly today, or so I’ve found ;)_

_New message: Merry  
Who needs a union when a year’s hard work is rewarded with meeting the best looking guy you’ve ever seen?_

_Reply to: Merry  
Subtle :)_

_New message: Merry  
Hey, subtlety is overrated – and it certainly doesn’t get you the guy’s number…_

_Reply to: Merry  
Tell me something – are you always this forward?_

_New message: Merry  
Honestly, no. Something about your smile, I suppose?_

Richard just shook his head in disbelief. Talk about laying it on thick. And yet, a small part of his brain pointed out, he wouldn’t have given you his number if he wasn’t interested, and if your inability to flirt back competently was turning him off then he would just stop responding…

_Reply to: Merry  
I’m really not sure you should be making comments like these when you only get out once a year – I can’t imagine you have a lot of men to compare me to._

_New message: Merry  
You’re really underestimating the number of fathers who come traipsing through the grotto every year. Trust me, I know a beautiful man when I see one._

The adjective made him blush. It was a very long time since anyone had called him beautiful. Hell, it was a long time since anyone had flirted with him like this, period. The messages were coming thick and fast – surprisingly so, actually, when he considered that Merry was meant to be working. The size of the grotto and the limited number of people in it at one time meant there was no way he could use his phone surreptitiously, especially not for an extended conversation.

_Reply to: Merry  
As much as I’m enjoying these completely undeserved compliments, shouldn’t you be doing your elf duty and distributing gifts? I can’t imagine Santa being thrilled with you texting on the clock…_

_New message: Merry  
Even elves need bathroom breaks, not to mention the odd snack._

There was something so amusing about the man feigning a full bladder so he could escape, hiding in the bathroom and texting – not that Richard was objecting in the slightest.

_New message: Merry  
And speaking of snacks…_

Richard held his breath, unconsciously bouncing his knee as he waited for the next message, the table jiggling along with him.

_New message: Merry  
I’ve got a break at four and there’s a café near the grotto that I’m pretty partial to (don’t worry, they do tea too) – want to meet me there? We can talk about dogs and those adorable nephews of yours (and exploitative North Pole labour laws)._

And there it was.

Richard’s resulting smile was so wide that it was rapidly becoming painful, his heart thrumming excitedly in his chest. This was definitely not how he had expected his day to turn out – it was better, so much better, than he ever could have imagined. Not even the prospect of killing time at the mall until four could put a dent in his euphoria.

_Reply to: Merry  
You don’t waste any time, do you?_

_Reply to: Merry  
And yes, I do appreciate that I can’t really talk, given that I texted you less than ten minutes after getting your number…_

_New message: Merry  
Of course I don’t – time is of the essence! It’s nearly time for me to head back to the North Pole, after all… and I’d hate to have to face the next year with rejection hanging over me._

_Reply to: Merry  
In that case, how could I possibly say no?_

_New message: Merry  
Though I like to hope that you’re not motivated solely by pity but also how incredibly handsome you think I am ;)_

_Reply to: Merry  
Yeah, there might be a little of that too._

_New message: Merry  
Good :)_

_Reply to: Merry  
I’ve got to ask, though… Will you be wearing the costume?_

The response was immediate – almost as if he’d been waiting for the question.

_New message: Merry  
Would you like me to be?_

Richard choked on his lick of ice cream, suddenly very grateful that Sophie couldn’t see the look on his face, embarrassment mixed with – yes, it was, the faintest and most shameful flicker of desire.

(It was the leggings. It had to be the leggings.)

_Reply to: Merry  
I’m merely concerned about you blowing your cover – an elf in a coffee shop is a slightly incongruous sight, after all._

_New message: Merry  
I’ll have you know that elves are very fond of coffee – how else do you think we get all those presents ready on time?_

_New message: Merry  
And I’ll let you in on a secret. This ridiculous garb isn’t actually our day to day wear – more of a ceremonial thing for outings with Santa._

_New message: Merry  
Come on, did you really think we’d wear it in the factory? The noise from the bells would be terrible. Completely impractical._

Richard laughed under his breath again, imagining the cheeky grin on Merry’s face as he typed out his messages, presumably still lurking in the bathroom. (God, Santa was probably going to think he was in extreme gastric distress going by the length of time he’d already taken. At some stage, someone was going to come looking for him, and it would almost certainly not end well.)

_Reply to: Merry  
Plain clothes it is, then. Wouldn’t want you to risk getting your special outfit messy._

_New message: Merry  
So… is that a yes?_

_Reply to: Merry  
Yes, it’s definitely a yes._

_Reply to: Merry  
I do have one more question, though…_

There was something quite strange about agreeing to a date with a man when there was one very important detail that he still didn’t know about him – but apparently, he didn’t need to spell out his request.

_New message: Merry  
It’s Lee :)_

“Lee,” he murmured under his breath, scrolling back and forth mindlessly through their conversation before changing the contact name. Yes, it suited him. And Richard loved the way it sounded on his tongue – light and hopeful and like this was only just the beginning.

_Reply to: Lee  
See you at four, Lee._

When he looked up, he realised that he and the boys had been so distracted by their presents that their ice creams had dripped everywhere.

He couldn’t find it in himself to care in the slightest.

Of course, that was when Sophie showed up, wearing a smile that quickly became a giggle as she caught sight of the details, the boys’ faces smeared with ice cream as they tried in vain to get theirs under control. Richard had given up entirely and was trying to flick the sticky remnants off his fingers under the table.

“I’m not sure I want to know what happened here,” she commented, sitting down next to Richard and leaning against him heavily.

“I don’t think you do,” he agreed. It was easier than trying to explain why he’d not been watching the twins with his usual intensity, why he’d not helped them with their ice creams or mopped them up as they went along – why he was still grinning like an idiot.

Tom and Seb, however, weren’t going to let him fly under the radar.

“Look what Merry gave Uncle Richard.”

“Who’s Merry?” she asked, picking up the dog and stroking its fur absent-mindedly. “Gosh, this little puppy is lovely and soft, isn’t he?”

“He’s one of Santa’s elves.”

Now Sophie was definitely paying attention.

“Uncle Richard got a present from one of Santa’s elves?” she repeated, shooting Richard a sly look.

“Yeah,” Seb said enthusiastically, “and he looked at him all funny.”

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

A long, contemplative pause. Richard braced himself.

“They smiled at each other weird.”

“Is that right?” she murmured, a hint of an elbow in Richard’s ribs, and he just shook his head. Thrown under the bus by a pair of five year olds.

“And,” Tom chipped in, his tone disbelieving, “Uncle Richard didn’t want to leave and get ice creams, he just wanted to talk to Merry.”

When did the boys get so unfortunately perceptive?

“I didn’t smile weird,” he countered, but they all just looked at him in what could well have been amused pity. “Yes, you did.”

“How?” Sophie asked curiously. Tom thought about it for a minute before squinting across the table at them, mouth curling up into a broad grin (albeit one that involved a few less teeth, since both boys had started to lose theirs in the last couple of months, keeping Richard informed of the process during their weekly Skype calls).

Sophie burst out laughing.

Tom looked incredibly pleased with himself.

“Sorry, Richard,” she said, “if a pair of five year olds know what’s up, you must have been glaringly obvious. Maybe we should make another trip just so I can see for myself what all the fuss is about.”

“There are pictures,” Seb offered helpfully, “Honey took some for us.”

Christ above.

“Is that right?” she repeated, holding out a hand and raising her eyebrows sternly. “Hand it over, Rich.”

He opened up the image – the most innocuous one, the one in which he and Lee weren’t looking at each other like the whole world had narrowed down to the two of them and no one else – and passed her the phone obligingly. She couldn’t comment like she clearly wanted to, not while the boys were sitting across from them, so opted instead to bump his knee pointedly under the table as she took in every detail. He knew that move – he recognised it from his younger years, and it meant that she very much liked what she saw.

And then she swiped backwards, just like he knew she would, and suddenly her smile disappeared.

“Oh my god, Richard.”

“What?”

“Look at the way he’s looking at you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sophie lowered her voice, clearly acutely aware of four little ears – even if the boys didn’t look like they were listening, they had demonstrated today their tendency to pick snippets out of adult conversations and parrot them back when it was least expected, and she wouldn’t have wanted to run the risk of that happening here (or give any indication that Lee was anything other than a North Pole-residing elf).

“He is absolutely as smitten with you as you are with him.”

“You really think so?” It wasn’t really worth denying his ridiculous attraction to Lee – not least when it was immortalised in digital form like this – but to hear that Sophie could see right off the bat that there was something mutual there… Well.

“Oh, I know so. And, by the way,” she added, with another cheeky nudge, “as of now, you are officially forbidden from complaining about being past your prime or not knowing how to attract guys, because really – look at his face. I can’t wait to hear how it all unfolded, how you managed to get yourselves to that point in literally a few minutes – and yes, I will be needing all of the details.”

Richard resigned himself to the fate of being tormented for the next several decades about making googly eyes at a Christmas elf (and the elf making them right back).

“Fine,” he conceded – there was no way he could keep it all from her, especially in light of the developments after they’d left the grotto, “but later, okay?”

“As soon as we get home,” she countered, “and speaking of which – is there anything else you need to do before we get out of here?”

“Actually… well.” He cleared his throat. “How about you take the car and I’ll make my own way back?”

Sophie blinked at him, nonplussed. “What? You hate the mall. You were ready to leave practically before we arrived. So why – oh.” Her eyes widened and she smiled broadly. “Oh my god. Tell me I’m right in thinking what I’m thinking.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“Yes you do, Richard.”

“Okay, fine. Yes. You’re right.”

Sophie clapped her hands together gleefully. “You have a date.”

“I do. Or something. Coffee. He didn’t say it was a date, but –”

“It’s a date,” she repeated, “cop on, Richard. Look at his face in that picture – there’s no way you can convince me that’s the face of someone who just wants to be your friend.”

Richard was very grateful that the boys had refocused their attention on their new toys and had started a very loud and involved game with them, the conversation mercifully floating way over their heads.

“It might be a date.” He paused, thinking of that smile again. “I really want it to be a date.”

If it was a date, he wondered, would he get a kiss at the end of it? That mouth was incredibly kissable, after all, and it was going to be just the two of them, and Lee would be out of costume and just himself and there was probably little risk of him being recognised as Merry (and causing an uproar as any children that saw him were given a harsh dose of reality) so… would there be anything to hold either of them back?

“Hey – what about the cute one from earlier?” Sophie asked, and he snapped out of his reverie. “Already discarded? Not that I’d blame you in light of this, mind you…”

“Actually,” he repeated, wanting to savour this moment, “it turns out they were one and the same.”

Sophie’s jaw dropped – and then she started to laugh.

“You’re kidding. Oh, this is just too perfect. Yes, we’re definitely going to talk when you get home.”

“I know,” he conceded. It had been a while since Sophie had been able to interrogate him about a man, after all – he had to let her have her moment. Plus, it would be good to have someone with whom he could dissect the afternoon’s events, not least those that were still to come, and who knew? Maybe by the time he got home he would have something bigger to tell her about than just getting Lee’s number and making plans to meet for coffee.

But the happiness on her face had dissipated to make way for something much more thoughtful. Damn it, she was going to say something serious and wise and act like she was the older sibling: Richard knew nothing about the man, he was being irresponsible, he shouldn’t get his hopes up too soon, a couple of conversations (well, one conversation and a whole lot of meaningful eye contact) wasn’t a good way to determine long-term compatibility…

“Just say it,” he sighed, and a snicker burst out of her mouth. It wasn’t exactly the noise he’d been expecting to hear, but as soon as she spoke, he understood where it had come from.

“It looks like you’re going to have a very _Merry_ Christmas after all, Rich.”

Not so wise after all, apparently.

Actually, maybe _this_ was his fate: relentless Christmas puns from Sophie, who would laugh like a drain every time she came up with a new one. Then again, if the flipside was Lee – if when they met again Lee looked at him in that same warm way that made his stomach lurch, if against all the odds this coffee turned into something more – he didn’t think he’d really be able to bring himself to mind at all.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a hopeful grin, “I think maybe I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> Me when I first signed up to the calendar: yep, my contributions are going to be 4-5k max, nice and short and fluffy, that's completely doable, yep.  
> Me as this fic started to take shape: ... whoops.
> 
> In all seriousness though, I very much hope you like it (the pressure was on to kick off the month in style, eek!) and if you dooo then let me know in the comments :)
> 
> AND THE MOST IMPORTANT THING: this was a joint effort between me and (the talented, lovely, patient, etc) Laurelin AND she has written a sequel which will be posted on the 10th so keep an eye out for it! (Hint: it's gorgeous) <3
> 
> The elf names used are from this gem of a website: http://christmas.namegeneratorfun.com/ and yes, Lee's is in fact Merry Gingerbubbles... and Richard's is Cherry Ivyballs. So I'm just going to leave that link there for entertainment's sake :D
> 
> \- Lametta Fruitflakes (yep, that's me...)


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